


See That Smile

by Lifeinahole



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Minor Character Death, ukulele playing, wedding singer au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 22:42:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14174934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lifeinahole/pseuds/Lifeinahole
Summary: Killian is the charismatic lead singer of a band known for making weddings unforgettable. That is, until his own wedding is cancelled and he vows to never sing at another one. Years later, he meets Emma, a bartender at the event hall and woman planning her own nuptials. But in the process of helping her plan her own wedding, he discovers that he does still have the capability to feel again, and it all starts with the way that Emma smiles at him. Of course this would be his luck.





	See That Smile

**Author's Note:**

> Almost two years after I started this beast, it's finished! Huzzah! Now to finish off this semester so I can spend my summer writing fic. Enjoy!!

In a small town, being in a band willing to play for any events that are booked at the local reception hall is _kind_ of a big deal, if you ask Killian. Especially when word of mouth marks you as the best reception band in a fifty-mile radius. This fact keeps Killian and his band, The Buccaneers, pretty busy through the year.

That’s not to say it’s his only gig, though. Most of his weeks are spent giving music lessons to various residents of Storybrooke. From the very young to the very old; from voice lessons to guitar, Killian spends his afternoons in half hour appointments hoping that someone has practiced their given instrument throughout the week.

The bad part of being the reigning house band is that when it comes to planning his own wedding, he can’t bring himself to hire anyone else to play the reception.

“You can’t sing at your own wedding.” Robin tells him one night as they’re tearing down.

“Who says?” is Killian’s first response. “Listen, I’m not going to book another band and let them get even a corner of the market we have here. If they want shows, they need to work their way up like we have. Besides, maybe it’ll be charming, me popping up here to sing every couple songs.” He can feel his expression going dreamy. “Serenade my new wife.”

“Whatever you say, mate,” Robin says, shaking his head as they pack away the last of the instruments.

There’s a reason they’re so good. Killian is the ultimate champion of love. He’s there to give the exact right vibe to the entire hall, to get them dancing, to make them happy, to make them seem like anything beyond the walls is unimportant. With good music, dancing, the right lighting, and the right amount of drinks being poured, wedding receptions are always his favorite.

It also helps that he’s been doing this since he got out of high school. A strange twist of fate brought him to Storybrooke shortly after that, and for the last ten years he’s happily settled into his niche. Somewhere along the road, he met Milah, and knew immediately that while she was a little older, a little restless after a touchy divorce and a son left behind, he wanted her to be his wife.

As the time passes, and his happy day gets closer, Killian can only push forward and anticipate that day that he firmly believes will be the best of his life.

Just a month before, however, Milah’s car loses control on a sharp turn. He’s at work when he gets the call, pulled just halfway from yet another reception and given the news that he’ll won’t be seeing his own.

A few days later, when they’re supposed to be practicing for another wedding that weekend, Killian is instead standing and watching his beloved be lowered into the ground. When the next wedding comes up, he flakes out. The band is forced to perform without their charismatic singer, and it’s obvious that while he’s not the sole fount of talent among the group, without him it just doesn’t hold the same charm.

He vows not to sing at weddings from that point on, and instead starts spending his weekends at the bottom of bottles, sorting through the pictures of Milah and slowly packing her stuff away. His friends try to help the best they can, but there’s only so much of Robin’s pitying looks that he can stand. He can only handle Dave’s fiancee hovering around him with worried glances and baked goods for so long. Try as he might, he cannot accept the comfort of others when they’re all so happy with their own loved ones, and so he retreats to his lonesome apartment to drink his sadness into numbness, only to wake up and repeat the same the next day.

At the very least, he’s excellent at hiding his pain away when he’s performing. Luckily, there are plenty of other events booked at the hall that they still keep steady work coming in. They’re there for anniversaries, and birthday parties. They play for bar mitzvahs and bat mitzvahs, along with the formal dances from the local high school. But no weddings, never again. In fact, the only wedding he _does_ attend is that of David and Mary Margaret’s, and he makes sure to sit in the back and avoid as many people that would ask too many questions for the short time he decides to attend.

The months pass, and then years. Two and a half years after he swore off wedding singing, life is much the same with different faces. Killian is used to the rotation of workers coming and going from the reception hall. It’s a small town, but catering and bartending isn’t a job that many hold for long. It’s usually a placeholder for their real dreams.

As he’s sitting waiting for his customary water to take on stage, a new bartender appears with a tray of clean glasses to stock away. His heart suddenly springs back to life when he sees her smile flash at him while he stares, the stunned expression etched onto his face. There’s something about her that strikes where a memory should be, but he’s at a complete loss. Surely, he’d remember the long, blonde hair that she’s tying back into a ponytail. Maybe…

“She’s engaged,” David says, cutting off Killian’s train of thought, sneaking up on the former wedding singer without sneaking at all. “I know you said you’re not looking, but if you _were_ , that’s not the right one to start with.”

“I didn’t ask, and I’m _not_ looking,” Killian responds flippantly. His poker face must be utter crap, though, because David just snorts and mutters some response like “ _Yeah, sure_ ” and walks back to the other end to take care of an early arrival to the high school reunion they’re working. Killian gets up on stage and does his best to sing “Give Me One Reason” instead of belting out “Ironic” like he wants to. The class of 1996 probably appreciates it.

It’s about halfway through the party when Killian signals that it’s time for them to take a break. The reunited classmates all mingle to refresh their drinks and eat more cake, chatter like their lives have gone great places in the last twenty years since the prime of their lives. Killian has just hit the bottom step when he notices the Prom Queen, voted “Most Likely to Succeed” has succeeded in getting herself enormously tanked, and he leads her to the side entrance so she can get sick in privacy.

They make it just outside the doors, right along the platform above the rubbish bin, when the woman pitches forward. She braces herself on a metal railing and aims right for the dumpster beneath her.

“Good shot.” The accuracy of the hit is impressive for one so intoxicated. “There you go, lass. Let it all out,” he says soothingly, standing close to hold her steady but turning his head away. It’s when he averts his eyes that he sees the new bartender perched on the top step of the fire escape, a mixture of humor and horror on her face, especially after a particularly violent wretch that makes Killian wonder if the whole stomach came out that time.

All he can do is mouth _“I’m sorry_ ” to the blonde nearby, whose eyebrows have just about climbed into her hairline, but she’s clearly holding back laughter when she waves him off.

“Okay!” Miss 1996 announces, her arms raised above her head in triumph. “I’m good to go!” She turns and stumbles back the way she came, leaving Killian baffled at her recovery time.

“That is the fastest puke and rally I have _ever_ seen in my life, and that’s including college kids,” the woman finally speaks up. She stands, shifting her water glass into her other hand and holding one out towards Killian. “Emma Swan,” she introduces.

“Killian Jones. Leader of the fine house band you’ve hopefully been enjoying this evening.” He takes her hand, shakes it as long as is polite, and then drops it. The spark he feels has to be his imagination, and especially forbidden because she is definitely wearing a ring on a business finger.

“It brings back a few memories.” She smiles, and he almost sighs at the way it lights up her whole face. “You guys are _really_ good. There’s no chance I can convince you to play a wedding, is there? David already told me you guys don’t do weddings, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to at least ask.”

“Ah, no. I retired from the wedding circuit,” he tells her, reaching up and scratching the back of his neck. He doesn’t realize his sleeves are pushed up until she tilts her head, a sly smile on her face as she reads it.

“Oh? Who’s Milah?” Clearly, Dave may have mentioned that he didn’t sing at weddings anymore, but he didn’t share the reasons behind it.

He drops his arm quickly, resisting the urge to slap his hand over the inked skin and find a way out of this awkward situation.

“She’s, ah – “ He trails off, finding it difficult to explain to this newcomer what his sad little story is.

“Oh god,” she mumbles, clearly reading Killian’s expression. Her own face says that it was probably a footnote somewhere in a conversation, but she’d forgotten it until this very moment. “Never mind. I’m just gonna go… pry my foot out of my mouth and get back to work. Um, forget I asked. It was nice to meet you, Killian.”

“Likewise,” he manages, thus ending their first official meeting.

But it wouldn’t be their last, thankfully. They strike up conversations over the next couple weeks of events. Killian discovers Emma’s superpower of being able to detect lies when they both work an anniversary party for an elderly couple with a host of almost-adult grandkids. It seems that some of the youngsters think they can (still) get away with passing for twenty-one, and while that may have happened once or twice ( _ten times_ , actually) while August was working the bar, they now have Emma to contend with.

It’s a couple weeks after when Emma approaches him during set-up, a sheepish expression on her face and his favorite brand of rum in her hand. “Ah, I wanted to give this to you. Sort of an apology gift. David gave me the run-down on it all. I shouldn’t have asked, not how I did, anyways. So I also found out your poison of choice. Peace offering?”

“There was never peace to restore, Swan. But I’ll appreciate the tasty treat over the next couple weeks.” (Days, but he doesn’t say it – no one needs to know he’s still a bit of a wreck behind closed doors.)

“Good. In that case, hopefully you can consider it a bit of a bribe, then.”

“Oh? Whatever for?”

“Well, you don’t play weddings anymore, but you’ve certainly been around the business long enough. I’m new here, and everyone is trying to hike up their prices, I can tell. But every time I try to wheedle them lower, they just claim the price is set in stone.” She gives him a pleading look. “Help me out, Jones. I work this and another job, I have a kid, and Walsh is being spectacularly bad at contributing both with the cash and the decisions right now. Please?”

It’s a disastrous idea, but the expression she gives him, the hopeful look – he can’t turn it down. He sucks in a deep breath and lets it out slowly, dropping his chin to his chest in defeat. “Fine, I’m free in the mornings, and again after five. As long as you can make that work, I’ll help. But something tells me I’m going to regret this.”

-x-

The wedding plans start less than a week after he agrees. The first decision they decide to tackle is which band will play at the reception, because Killian figures it’ll be like ripping off a band-aid to get it out of the way first.  

They use the reception hall for their auditions, bringing in several bands to test out to see how they sound. The first is the band that usually plays the weddings around town, now. Killian likes them best. The front man, Graham, has a similar charm while he’s on stage, even if he’s not as outgoing as Killian. He’s sweet, though, which usually works well with the lovey-dovey themes abound at wedding receptions.

Graham and his band look appropriately dapper, singing an edition of “Wonderful Tonight” that gives Emma an expression Killian imagines she’d have if she were looking at a pile of puppies napping, and he knows he’s done good testing them first. When they finish, she stands up and claps.

“Thank you. We’re not the Buccaneers, but no one ever could measure up to Killian singing a wedding,” Graham says into the microphone, a companionable nod and smile at his fellow singer accompanying the words.

“Sounded pretty damn good to me,” Emma tells him, saving Killian from having to respond. “We haven’t set a date yet, but we’re looking at spring. Maybe April or May?”

Graham’s face falls and Killian already knows what he’s going to say. “I’m so sorry, we’ve just booked our last one for those months. I’m down to one weekend in August and a couple in September.

“Shit. I was worried about that. Okay! No problem! If anyone cancels, send them my condolences but call me.”

With the next band, Killian looks down at his contact card in shock. The Naughty-hams are relatively new, and he’s mostly surprised that the front runner, a man named Keith that likes to call himself the Sheriff (of Nottingham, no less), is dressed in tight leather pants and a tight leather vest. He sneaks a look at Emma’s face and has to press his lips together to avoid the outright laugh that is trying to bubble out of him. After a surprisingly dirty rendition of “Try a Little Tenderness,” Keith peacocks to the front of the stage, preening as he goes while he waits for Emma’s verdict.

“Well!” she says brightly. “That was certainly something! I’ll let you know!”

“Of course, m’lady. And thanks for getting out of the business, Jones. I’ve gotten more snatch at weddings thanks to all the gigs you’ve handed us over the years.” He looks directly at Emma as he licks his lips and gives her a sleazy wink. Emma almost falls off her chair laughing, which visually deflates the man on stage.

“ _Wow_ , okay. You’ve just inspired me to hire a DJ! You can leave now.” By the end of the sentence, Emma is glaring at him, leaving no room for argument.

As soon as the band has cleared out, Killian stands up from his chair and applauds for Emma. The chuckle she gives him is much more genuine than her laughter from earlier, and she dips her head in recognition to his clapping.

“DJ it is, then.” Killian extends his hand out to her, transferring her hand to the crook of his elbow as he escorts her out. With the music selection out of the way, the list has gotten shorter, and they have four more appointments to tackle.

-x-

With his suggestion, they set the wedding date before moving forward any further. The big day is set for the second weekend in May and by the time summer starts transitioning into fall, Killian has helped Emma secure a DJ, but he’s also gotten her a fabulous price on flowers, booked a photographer that gave her a deal since she’s Killian’s friend, and even helped arrange the tuxedo fittings for the following week if Walsh can pull himself away from work in the city in order to make an appearance.

The one thing that isn’t as smooth (and probably contributes to the hefty discount Emma’s given) is a misunderstanding with the photographer. Apparently, Killian Jones sitting in the waiting area of the little office of Tink’s studio is cause for excitement, and she bustles out as soon as she hears.

“Well I’ll be damned I _never_ thought you’d move on and find someone to settle down with!” Tink exclaims as soon as she rounds the corner.

Emma’s eyes go wide, and Killian can see her looking between him and the photographer, shifting uncomfortably when the silence stretches onward and upward of a full minute. He recognizes that he has choices in how he responds, and so he takes his time deciding which will be the best one. Ultimately, he wants to make it as painless for all of them, and for the embarrassment to pass quickly, so he stands from where he was sitting and forces a smile.

“Tink, I’d like you to meet my friend Emma, who is getting married in the spring and is looking for a photographer.” He gestures back at Emma who is rising from her own chair, moving forward to shake the hand of the stunned woman in front of her.

“Well I - but you - of _course_. _Hello_ , Emma. You’ve come to the right place for a photographer, I promise. Why don’t we go back to my office and talk about what you’re looking to capture on the big day, huh?”

Emma glances at him again, and he gives her a more genuine smile (if not a little smaller) and nods.

“I’m going to step out for a minute and run an errand. I’ll be back ‘round in just a bit,” he says, hooking his thumb at the door and hoping Emma understands.

“Of course. I’ll meet you out front?” Her hand rests gently on his forearm, and his heart taps just a smidge harder at the contact. He’s left without words, so he nods again and turns for the door, trying not to look back because he’s afraid he’d find her looking, too.

-x-

“I think you deserve a lot more bottles of rum for all that you’ve done for me,” Emma tells him as he drops her off at her apartment later that evening.

They spent the whole of the day together, and yet it feels like no time at all. It’s the kind of feeling, Killian realizes as he walks her to the door of the apartment complex, that he used to get after the first time hanging out, that first instance of attraction that goes beyond looks to include personality - it’s the moment where he would usually start to think about what it would be like to date the person beside him and wonder if there’s a chance of a goodnight kiss…

“Do you want to come up for a drink? Walsh is still out of town, and my son is with his dad this weekend.” She hesitates for a moment, shoving her hands in her pockets as she scrunches her face in an expression he can only name as adorable. “I could really use the company.”

On the tail end of the thoughts he just had, he should refuse. But friendship with Emma is easy, and it’s been a long time since something came as naturally as the conversations and interactions they have. “How can I refuse when you put it that way?” He follows her up to the small but cozy apartment.

While she fixes them drinks (hot chocolate - it’s her favorite) he meanders around the open living area looking at the pictures scattered through the apartment. Henry, who he’s had the pleasure of meeting once, is the center fixture of most of them. But there are others with her and David and Mary Margaret. Another frame has a picture of Emma and Ruby and Mary Margaret, none of whom he recognizes the first time he looks at the picture. But then he knows it all too well - the three decked out in bright wigs and sashes for Mary Margaret’s bachelorette party a few years ago, months after he stopped playing weddings.

Seeing that picture brings back a vivid memory and Killian makes a noise of surprise. He got rather smashed that night after their set, but so did –

“Oh, no.” Emma returns at that moment, seeing which one he’s looking at. “That picture is awful! I was so drunk I could barely stand by the time we left...wherever we were. I think I missed the couch and slept on Ruby’s floor that night.”

“Love, I remember that evening. You three came into the hall so Mary Margaret could see David.” Of course, at the time, he didn’t know who the third member of their little group was.

Her jaw drops as her eyebrows furrow. “We did, but I don’t…remember…” she trails off, her head tilting to one side. “Oh, no,” she murmurs. “ _You’re_ the guy from the coat closet?”

“Aye, I was,” he reluctantly answers. No wonder he’s always been drawn to her.

“Did we…?”

“No, no no. Nothing like that. You sort of,” he pauses a moment, gesturing to try to find the delicate way to put it, “fell asleep whilst your lips were locked with mine.”

“I fell _asleep_?” She throws her head back and laughs with incredulity.

He nods sagely, a smile of his own tilting up his lips. He remembers her rather vividly – the beautiful girl with the short pink wig, the moment she found him in the back of the coat check with a bottle of rum and demanded he share, the way she told him that she was sure she’d never get married, and when he expressed the same thought, they came together in an imperfect, drunken kiss – two lonely souls just needing a moment.

Thanks to said wig and inebriation, he never put the pieces together. He could never recall the face of the girl, but he has never forgotten how she kissed. She was a powerhouse that punched him out when he was still healing. After she passed out in his lap, he gathered her up in his arms and took her back to her waiting friends, telling them he found her fast asleep. He helped Dave bundle the three women into a taxi, averting his eyes as the bride and groom-to-be gave a very public display of their affection before the cab drove away. He did his best to forget, but there’s always been some remainder of her in the back of his mind, as if he should remember her as being an important turning point.

“For that, I probably owe you another bottle of rum,” she tells him, finally passing him the promised mug of hot chocolate. “I was a bit of a mess back then. Neal had just walked back into my life and demanded to meet his son and I was sick of living in Boston. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry I fell asleep on you while kissing you.”

There’s a tiny upturn of her lips, and Killian is startled to realize he wants to kiss those lips and see what that smirk tastes like, how it compares to the last one. Instead, he clears his throat and scratches behind his ear. “So, you met Walsh right after the bachelorette party then?”

“Oh, no. I met him about a year ago.” Her lips press into a thoughtful line as she moves to settle onto her couch. “He’s _supposed_ to be looking for a good spot to open another furniture store, but he keeps getting wrapped up with his main store and hasn’t really committed to the relocation like I have.”

He moves to sit on the opposite end of the couch, taking the time to study her face as she speaks. Killian would never claim to be an expert in Emma Swan, for she is an enigma that he’s learned to read in the spaces between her spoken words, but he’s pressed to think that her expression is not one solely of contemplation. “Quite the quick development, aye?”

“Yeah, well, he loves me, and he loves my son, and he popped the question after just six months of dating.” Her eyes go somewhere far away, and Killian wants to reach for her, wants to ask how she _really_ feels about all this, but he knows the question won’t be appreciated. So he quietly sips his hot chocolate and waits for her to continue. “And I said yes.” She smiles when she finishes, but he can still see that it doesn’t quite reach her eyes, doesn’t match the luster of emotion she achieves when she talks of her son or her friends.

“Sounds perfect,” he tells her, ignoring the lie and ignoring the way she looks like she knows he’s lying.

To distract them both, he regales her with stories of being a front-runner in a house band, giving her all the gossip he can think of and enjoying the way she laughs. His stories range from the absurd to the sappy, and they talk for hours beyond what he meant to stay. It’s only once he glances at the clock that he realizes how much he’s overstayed her invitation for a quick drink.

“Apologies, love. I had no intentions of keeping you up so late.”

Emma’s eyes widen when she takes her own look at the time. “Oh! No, not your fault. I didn’t realize how late it was. If you weren’t here I’d probably just be watching Netflix. I usually have pretty bad insomnia. Drives Walsh nuts when he’s here.”

“I’m a bit of a night owl. Can’t say I’d be doing much different if I were at home.”

“Well, thanks for everything. Maybe if you’re not busy tomorrow after Granny’s retirement party, we can hang out again?”

“I like the sound of that, Swan. It’s a plan.”

-x-

A few weeks after their tentative friendship really starts to solidify, Killian gets a phone call from Emma. It’s a week night, and late at that, with no parties or events that require the band’s services, so he only has plans to work his way through some of the movie recommendations that Emma had given him. Immediately, he can tell from her voice that things are not okay.

“Swan?”

“You can say no if you’re busy but I could really use a friend right now.”

“What’s the matter?”

“It’ll probably be easier to explain in person.”

“You’re worrying me, love.”

“It’s nothing to worry about,” she huffs out, her voice hitching on a hiccupped sigh. “If you’re free, though, it’s not something I can really talk to Henry about yet and you seem like you’d understand.”

That first half of that last statement makes his stomach drop. Emma doesn’t keep anything from Henry, and his mind auto-populates a list of things she wouldn’t deem appropriate to discuss with her son at this time. Even as he tells her he’ll be over soon and throws on a pair of jeans, he’s worrying through the list. Is it an illness? A sexual matter? A sexually _transmitted_ matter? A _pregnancy_?

By the time he makes it to her doorstep, he’s worked himself into a mental frenzy, and he’s momentarily heartbroken at the possibility that Emma is going through something she can’t share with the one person who has shared everything since he was born. It’s even worse when she pulls open the door, her eyes reddened and puffy, her nose in a similar state, but she cracks a smile when she sees him there, thanking him for coming over as she ushers him inside out of the nearly-winter chill that’s settled over Storybrooke.

“I’m sorry for calling you over so late,” she says, her voice hushed, and Killian realizes that Henry is likely in bed down the hall.

“Anytime, Swan. You know that. Now what’s the matter? I’ve thought up at least ten different awful scenarios and I don’t like any of them.”

“It’s probably not something you came up with. It’s something _I_ can barely believe actually happened,” she mutters, nodding her head in the direction of the living room. She follows him in shortly, carrying two mugs. They’ve grown accustomed to their routines, and that includes Emma’s hot chocolate and Killian’s tea, steeped just the way he prefers.

She lifts the mug to her lips to sip, and that’s the first time Killian notices that she’s not wearing her ring. She sees him scrutinizing the empty finger but she still takes her time with her drink.

“Swan.”

“Walsh won’t be moving in with me,” she finally says as she settles the mug onto its designated coaster. “And I’m going to need your advice on how to cancel all the wedding plans.”

Killian can see how hard she’s trying to hold it together. Through her statements, her voice only wavered once, and even showing that much perceived weakness is probably too much for her. It’s because of how she handles her emotions that he takes an extra moment to think about how he’s going to respond.

“We can start handling anything you’re ready to in the morning,” he tells her, making sure to look her straight in the eye and keeping any of his personal views about the end of her engagement to himself.

It was the right thing to say, apparently, as she deflates a little in her spot, sinking back into her couch and wrapping her arms around her knees. He wants to reach out, to offer the physical comfort that he’s so used to giving to friends, but he stops himself. He may be able to read her expressions and her body language, but he has no idea the boundaries that exist involving Emma and touch that she doesn’t initiate. So he tries to give her a comforting smile and waits for her to tell him anything else she’s willing to disclose.

The tale comes out slowly, as she describes the weird behavior and the reluctance to move to Storybrooke. That day, when Henry was with his father and Emma had a rare night off, she drove to see Walsh, hoping to finally talk him into limiting his commute to once a month, and instead she found a paper trail of illegal activity, and Walsh’s inability to look her in the eye before he knew she knew.

“You know me and my superpower,” she says, twisting her empty mug between her hands. “I could tell he was lying before he even started making up the excuses. I told him he could clean up his act or I would turn him in.”

“And what did he say?”

“Well, everything he said after a point can and will be used against him in a court of law. So, I grabbed the whole three things I ever kept at his place and left the ring, since it was probably bought with dirty money anyways.”

He thinks he apologizes, or says something of a comforting nature, but all he really knows is that Walsh is the biggest wanker in the history of the universe. He has no other responses, so he neutrally holds his arm aloft in an easy invitation for a hug, and tries not to find personal enjoyment out of the fact that she takes him up on this offer.

“I don’t know what to tell Henry,” she mumbles against his shoulder. “Or how to tell everyone, really. But I managed to hold myself together when I picked him up from Neal’s after leaving the city.”

“I don’t know what to tell you about them, but I’ll take care of all the wedding details if you wish.”

“Yeah, I don’t really see going back on that decision. Since he’s unlikely to make bail any time soon, I think it’s a dead relationship.”

He fights another smile at her wry tone, and shrugs when she does.

-x-

The process of helping Emma set up her wedding had been a fun adventure, namely because he’d gotten to spend all that time with her. He doesn’t want to admit it, but cancelling her wedding is fun, because now she’s not going to be married to a bloody fool.

Because he’s Killian, and because everyone knows who he is, it’s no trouble at all for him to call or visit the various vendors for Emma’s wedding and talk them out of keeping the deposits.

That Friday at the hall, a myriad of bouquets show up for Emma, delivered in random batches throughout the evening. Killian can’t help but smile as he sees her astonishment as they keep rolling in. With each new colorful bundle of blooms, she lights up, her face contorting into a pouting smile as each vendor that would’ve been putting her wedding together in a couple weeks sends their condolences. 

At the end of the night, she shoves a random assortment of the flowers at him; it looks like one from each bouquet, but they’re beautiful all mixed together.

“Consider this payment for getting all my deposits back,” she says, handing them over and giving him a bright smile.

“All part of my job, I suppose,” he says, accepting the flowers and setting them on top of one of the amps until he’s done cleaning up. As he winds another cord around his arm, he expects Emma to go back to her cleaning, but she lingers for a moment until he looks back up at her.

“And maybe an invitation to come over after we’re both done working?”

“That can be arranged, I believe.” He smiles genially at her, noticing not for the first time the way she bites her lip and smiles back. If his heart beats a little extra at the way she looks at him, he does his best to ignore it in the face of remaining a good friend. And no good friend deserves to have a man following her around with hearts in his eyes just after a broken engagement.

As the months go by and they get closer to a year of knowing each other, Killian does his best to keep that respectable distance with Emma. They still hang out, they watch movies, they go to dinner, he has a blast with Henry whenever he spends time with the lad, and he does his best to ignore how absolutely enamored he is with Emma Swan.

“What the bloody hell do I do?” he asks the heavens one night, hoping for some kind of answer – from a higher power, from Milah, from the damn weather if it’ll give him one – but nothing comes of it. Nothing answers him, except for the silence of the night and the beating of his heart, so he goes about just trying to do his best.

The next gig at the hall is a wedding anniversary, which for some reason never bothered him the same way receptions did. He’s thankful for a new repertoire of songs he’s been working on, so that when the happy couple celebrating their ten years together asks for “Longing to Belong,” he’s happy to pull out his rarely used ukulele and oblige.

As the couple dances and he plays and sings, however, Killian finds his eyes drawn to the bar where Emma stands frozen as she listens to him. There’s a bottle in her hand, hovering just above the trash can she’s meant to throw it in. In some cliche way, the world around them stops. No longer are there other people in the hall; to him it is empty except for the two of them, and the way she’s staring at him, and the way he’s singing directly to her. His heart clenches painfully as he realizes how close to the truth the lyrics are, and it’s that which finally forces him to close his eyes, finishing the song lost in the darkness he’s been locked away in for so long now.

By the time he opens them again, Emma is back to work, and except for what he thinks might be a little color on her cheeks, she looks as if nothing happened just then. With a whoosh of relief, he calls for them to take a brief break and steps into the restroom to pull himself together.

The limits of Emma’s pretending that they didn’t have a moment stretch blissfully far. They go on with their daily lives as if there was nothing of consequence that came from a look, which Killian is grateful for. He never believed he would ever feel for a woman again the way he felt for Milah, but now that he’s faced with the actuality of that happening, he wishes for nothing but normality while he comes to grips with his own emotions.

There are moments, however, that Killian wonders if she’s really pushed the moment from her mind or if there’s something more riding beneath her exterior. It’s how he knows she interacts with him both in public and private, compared to how she interacts with David or August. There’s a cautionary affection in her gestures: her hand on his arm, her proximity when they watch movies or chat afterhours.

There’s also a longing in himself to explore what this could become, but with his own deep wounds and her still recovering from a broken engagement, he hesitates. And waits.

He’s at the hall early one day, tuning his instruments for the next show when Henry wanders in and straight to him.

“Mom says you have the best voice she’s ever heard,” he says bluntly, in that way that only children can. There’s no ulterior motives - the lad merely wants to make a statement.

“Is that right?”

Henry hums his agreement, tilting his head to the side in a way so reminiscent of Emma that Killian grins at the similarities. Killian holds the acoustic guitar towards Henry.

“You wanna give it a go?”

The wide eyes and slightly frightened expression only stick around for a moment before Henry nods enthusiastically and sits down on the edge of the small stage. Killian kneels and helps him carefully loop the strap over his shoulder and settles the instruments in his hands and lap.

“You put this hand over here. And this one is what you use to strum the instrument. Would you like to try a chord?” With yet another brain-jarring nod, Killian smiles wider and positions Henry’s fingers on the different frets and strings. “Okay, now take your thumb and glide it along each string starting from the top.”

His little thumb pops along each note and he just about lights up the room when he’s done.

“Good, now do it faster.”

Henry listens avidly as Killian instructs him until he’s strumming the chord easily.

“I do believe you’re a natural, lad.”

At the praise, Henry’s whole demeanor changes to another thing he holds similar with his mother: he turns bashful, his face puckering into a shy smile as he ducks his head over the instrument to play the chord again. He fiddles around for another second before looking up at Killian with all his eleven-year-old wisdom.

“I think my mom likes you,” he says, again with the straight-forwardness of a child.

Killian does his best to keep his expression neutral, but it’s a close call. “And why do you think that?”

“She talks about you a lot. Like, more than she ever talked about Walsh. And every time I come home from visiting my dad, she tells me how she hung out with you the whole time, and she doesn’t like spending time with anyone that isn’t me, or Uncle David and Aunt Mary Margaret.”

Killian sincerely doubts that all of this leads up to some grand crush on Emma’s behalf, but he’s willing to humor Henry and at least let the boy dream.

“And whenever she comes home from working, she sings. And mom never sings because some older girl was really mean to her when she sang when she was little.”

This piece of information, however, makes him pause. “Oh really? And what’s her favorite song to sing?”

“I don’t know the name of it, but it sounds like…” Here, Henry hums a few bars, and Killian huffs out a laugh as the familiar tune of “Longing to Belong” comes out. “So yeah, I think she likes you. And I think you like her.”

“And what do you think about that?”

Henry shrugs, concentrating again on putting his fingers back where Killian had placed them earlier and strumming the guitar, but Killian can see the smile stretching across Henry’s lips.

“Aye, well, why don’t I show you another chord, hm?”

He loses track of time, only becoming aware that it’s closer to the start of the event when a box of liquor hitting the bar startles him. He turns to find Emma staring at the pair of them huddled over the guitar, and he smiles as he ducks his head, especially with the way Emma focuses in on her son switching carefully back and forth between the two chords he’s already picked up.

“Henry, Mary Margaret will be here to pick you up in a few minutes,” she says as she approaches, which makes the boy groan in disappointment.

“Can Killian teach me how to play guitar?”

“That depends on if Killian _wants_ to teach you how to play guitar,” she replies, lifting an eyebrow in question directed at Killian.

“Aye, lad. We’ll sort out the details later. I’d be honored to take you on as my apprentice.”

He barely manages to save the guitar from bobbling right to the ground with the enthusiasm Henry exudes when he stands to hug him, and still he ends up seated on the floor with the instrument in his lap as Henry’s arms wrap around his shoulders.

There’s a brand new sensation as he tries to absorb the joy of one so young, a new stab of pain that reminds him that he once wanted children of his own. Then Henry is slipping free from Killian’s grasp and hugging his mother around the waist. Before he can say another word, Henry is off to be collected by his aunt and Killian is still just a little stunned and sitting on the floor.

“You okay there?” Emma asks quietly, reaching her hand out to him to help him up. The concern on her face is noticeable, but he knows there aren’t words to fully express his feelings about what just occurred. So he smiles, instead, and lets her help him up.

As a bit of a test, he doesn’t move away as soon as he’s standing, nor does he release her hand. Instead, he keeps a loose hold so she can break it if she wants as he sways into her orbit. “Perfectly fine, Swan. More than fine. Your boy is a marvel, just like his mother.” His voice is a little softer than usual, and he notices the flirtatious edge in his voice - hopes that Emma notices it, too.

By the way she swallows, her eyes trained on the way his lips turn up, he’s inclined to think she’s observed this change in demeanor. Further testing, he thinks, may be in order.

In the weeks that follow, Killian takes to singing directly at Emma during lyrics that make him think of her, and he stops being surprised when she’s looking at him each time.

A month after his chat with Henry, he’s outside taking in the air during his break when the door eases open behind him. By the care in the gesture to avoid the squeaky hinge, he knows it’s Emma, but he waits for her to approach him.

The last few weeks have been tense - a delicate dance of the two of them testing the boundaries of flirting and teasing - just barely hints to let him know he’s not alone. In every gesture, he can sense Emma’s hesitation, and he’s just as happy taking his time as she is.

“You sound really good tonight,” she comments, moving along the wall to sit on the fire escape as usual. He turns his head and smiles, nodding at her in thanks.

“It’s a group effort,” he insists, rubbing the back of his neck as he feels a bashful flush bloom up to his ears.

“Henry is at his dad’s for the weekend. Wanna come over and see what’s on Netflix? David brought me a bottle of wine that they got at some vineyard tour last week, and I rarely drink alone.”

“Red or white?”

“There’s a picture of a kitten riding a unicorn on the label. Does it matter?”

He has absolutely no real response, so he shrugs in acquiescence. “Surely not, with that kind of description.”

It’s later than usual when they get to Emma’s apartment. The long night dragged even longer when there was an incident involving an entire tray of prawns ending up in the dishwasher. It was a team event to make sure the mess was cleaned and everyone else’s stations were tidied for the end of the day, hence it’s nearly midnight when they get back to her place. It’s no surprise then, that they’re more than a little slap-happy. While he follows her to her door, he manages to catch the aforementioned bottle of wine as it slips from under her arm as she wrestles with her pocket to release her keys.

Killian holds it aloft victoriously, grinning with triumph as Emma’s jaw drops before she laughs at it all.

“Good catch, Jones. Thank you!” She turns as she finally frees her keychain, giving him an unreadable look as she unlocks it and leads the way. She closes the door after he enters, hanging her keys up on the hook and kicking off her shoes. He follows suit, feeling the flirtation kick up a notch - maybe due to the length of time he’s had a silly crush on this woman or due to the length of the day - but either way, it prompts him to be more forward than he would under other circumstances.

“Well,” he says, “perhaps a little gratitude is in order.” He takes the hand that’s not holding the wine, rubbing behind his ear in a last fit of nerves before he taps his lips with that same finger.

Emma stops, her expression one of intrigue and amusement as her hand stays lifted halfway between them from where she was reaching for the bottle of wine. “Yeah, that’s what the ‘thank you’ was for.”

Some unused part of his youth comes back as he swaggers just a little closer. “Is that all your wine is worth to you?”

She’s fixated on his movements, her eyes drawn to his lips and the obvious invitation. This could be the start of something, or at least worth a good laugh later on. “Please, you couldn’t handle it,” she says after a moment, but she’s forgotten about the wine and has moved just infinitesimally closer.

He believes she’s right, but he’s unable to stop himself from that one last retort. “Perhaps you’re the one who couldn’t handle it,” he says, the ‘t’ popping more than he intended, the entire scenario something he would’ve used in his early twenties to pick up a woman from the bar after a gig. But here he is, holding his breath, staring at Emma as her eyes flit between his eyes and his lips.

There’s a moment where he thinks she’ll knock them both to the floor with the force of her momentum, but her lips are on his before he can even fully comprehend that this is a thing that is happening to him - that the wine bottle has safely fallen to the carpeted floor below, that Emma’s hands are gripping his jacket collar so tight that he’s worried for her fingers and the fabric in equal turns, that her lips taste sweet like the energy drink she finished before they exited her car. His hand ends up tangled in her hair, the other wrapped around her waist to hold her tight to him.

He wants to crawl into this moment forever, especially with the intensity of it all. First kisses are usually reserved and shy, tender in their newness. Emma must not have gotten that memo, breaking away to gulp in a breath of air before she’s right back there with her mouth on his. Of course, this isn’t their first kiss, not if the coat closet is to be counted. That _was_ a little different: two drunk adults in a reception hall needing the comfort of another human’s touch in a moment of weakness pales in comparison to two sober adults with feelings for each other in the privacy of one of their homes…

The moment has to end, though. Surely, this can’t go on forever. And when it does? Killian worries that when she pulls back she’ll kick him out or tell him that it was a one time thing. He’s very secure in the way he feels about Emma, but his own insecurity makes him worry this is closer to their real first kiss than a progressive change in their relationship.

“That was…” he gets out, his chest tight and his voice quiet.

Whatever response he was expecting, it wasn’t that Emma would cut off his statement with her lips pressed to his again, and it isn’t long before her hands are wandering under his jacket to push it off his shoulders. She steers him into the apartment, bypassing the couch where they would’ve watched Netflix until the wee hours of morning, instead moving down the hall towards her bedroom.

They pause just outside the door as Emma pulls him against her, and it’s only then that he fully recognizes how turned on he is, and so does she by the way she gasps, gripping him by the hips to pull him even closer. He needs no further encouragement to line them up a little better, building a steady thrust pattern against her, adjusting according to the noises she makes and the way her eyes flutter shut when he gets it just right.

“Fuck,” she whispers out, as if afraid that if she speaks too loud that the spell will break.

He knows how she feels. That’s not to say he doesn’t seize the moment for all it’s worth, in case it does turn out to be a dream, and he finds himself kissing a path down her neck even as he quietly inquires if she’s sure. Her hand is steady as it buries in his hair, gripping and pulling him back so they’re eye to eye.

“Positive,” is all she bothers to say before she kisses him again, propelling them into the room and towards the bed as she proceeds to kiss the bloody hell out of him.

They land on her mattress, a heap of pent up desire and shedding clothes, and it’s only once her hand grazes his bare thigh that he realizes just how fast they’ve sped forward.

“Wait, wait,” he manages to squeeze out, just as her body moves again and she’s straddling him. She’s down to underwear - sensible looking things that she wears under her work clothes that strongly suggest she wasn’t expecting this to happen, either, but that still take his breath away - and so it takes his brain a minute to remember that he’s meant to be speaking, that he should be saying something about jumping into this too fast. “Swan, I don’t want - I mean I _do..._ want, very much,” and he groans as she shifts in her spot, rubbing deliciously against his erection through their remaining garments.

“I like you,” he finally manages to say, reaching up to run his fingers through the strands of hair that have fallen out of the ponytail she pulled up halfway through the event tonight and caress her cheek. “Very much. And I don’t want to just sleep with you and go back to where we were, or worse - never speak to you again afterwards.”

She leans into Killian’s touch, and she nods and bends to kiss him again, much softer this time, much like the kind of first kiss he’s always known. She doesn’t speak, there are no words of reassurance and he thinks he _should_ worry about that, but her hands come up to frame his face and he somehow understands that this is all she can give him for the moment. As his hand trails up and down her spine, he accepts this offer, hoping that eventually she’ll be able to vocalize all that she can’t say right now.

Their momentum gains again, moving full force even as Killian’s heart stutters to a stop when she reaches beneath his boxers to stroke his cock with a light grip. It’s been ages - too long by most people’s standards but just a long dry spell in his own books at this point  - but still long enough with just his own hand as his companion that the touch feels pleasurably out of this world. He begins his own journey of touch, slipping his hand beneath yellow cotton and mapping the landscape of her sex with his fingers. She sighs and melts into him when he finds her clit, his pressure still light and exploratory to start.

They both gain courage as the minutes pass, as their own arousal and passion ramps up the longer they touch. He swiftly turns and lays her out on the bed, moving down her body with a sudden need to taste her. While she gasps when she hits the mattress, she encourages him along as soon as her initial shock dissipates, pushing down her underwear and leaning up briefly to remove her bra before getting comfortable. If Emma Swan is nothing else, she’s a woman who knows what she wants.

Killian takes it as a matter of pride that he’s between her thighs for less than five minutes before she’s calling his name, one hand buried in his hair and the other gripping the bedspread beneath her, her thighs tight around his face while she climaxes before going lax and falling limply to the bed. He places one more kiss to her navel before working his way up her body, taking some time to meet her breasts before she pulls him back up for a lazy, post-orgasm kiss.

Emma hums in satisfaction, working her hands beneath his boxers and pushing them down his hips. He hovers over her, letting her remove the garment for him, eliciting a gasp from him when her hands smooth over the back of his thighs. That’s far enough, in his opinion, because he settles further between her legs, letting the head of his cock glide against her skin. Even as warm as she is, the sensation still feels cool to his overheated, over-sensitive flesh.

“Killian?”

“Hmm?”

“I’d really like you to fuck me right now,” she tells him, her voice husky and quiet. He can feel his cock jump against her skin, and he dips low to let his mouth linger with hers, to let his tongue slide against hers before he catches her bottom lip between his teeth.

“As you wish,” he says after he releases it, and she takes that as her cue to contort and stretch, reaching for the drawers beside her bed to pull out a pack of condoms. She rips one from the line, throwing the rest and the box back on the nightstand. He takes it as a good sign that she also feels one round might not be enough.

For a moment, he forgets what the goal is - forgets what the endgame is all about - because Emma is radiant. Her hair is a messy halo all around her head, her skin still flushed with arousal and her minimal makeup just barely smudged. She bites her lip as she concentrates, and suddenly he remembers _exactly_ what they’re doing when he feels her roll the condom down the length of him. He leans down to bury his face in her neck and hair, nipping at the skin as she gives a good, long stroke down to the base and back up. Her name comes out a hoarse murmur against her skin as she moves to do it again, but he moves away from her grasp.

He teases her, rubbing his cock between her lips to work up some lubrication. By the leisurely way she stretches and arches off the bed, she’s enjoying the functional provocation. A noise of disappointment escapes her when he moves away, but he only settles onto his haunches, leaning back before coaxing her towards him.

“Come here,” he urges, slipping her legs on either side of his hips and planting her feet flat on the bed. “Bridge up for me, love.” She obliges, lifting her hips up toward him, and he smirks. “Perfect.” His hands anchor on her hips, pulling her forward as he slowly thrusts into her. Her back arches all the way off the bed with each inch, until just her head is holding her up as her hands move to grasp her breasts. She maintains the position even as he starts to thrust in earnest, and her volume rises the more she begins to clench around him.

She’s exquisite - wanton and aroused, taking control of her own pleasure as she commands his speed and depth. He just holds on for the ride, quite literally by the way his fingers are digging into her skin, but releases the hold on one hip to move his fingers to her clit.

The sharp cry she gives at that encourages him on, and he lifts his fingers briefly to his mouth to wet them before sliding them back across the same spot. When his name becomes a chant, he knows it’s only a matter of moments before she unravels, so he does his best to keep up with her. It’s around the time she crests her own climax that he speeds up, his body moving with instinct towards his own pleasure even as she’s settling down from hers.

He wraps his arms around her waist, holding her to keep her in the same spot so she can ride out her orgasm as his takes over. With one last groan that turns into her name, he finally pitches forward to let her fall to the bed, just managing to land to the side of her so as not to smother her.

“Shit,” she says, breathless with her chest heaving. _“Shit,”_ she repeats, before turning towards him and giving him a flurry of kisses. She chuckles at the stunned look on his face, pushing his hair off his forehead as she looks down at him. “That was incredible.”

“Aye,” he manages to say as he struggles to even out his breathing. It feels as if his heart could beat right out of his chest and he’s not sure it will ever be steady again. “Beyond any words I can think to describe it right now.”

They settle in against each other in the afterglow, all soft kisses and gentle caresses as their bodies come down from the ultimate high. Killian manages to kick his boxers off the rest of the way, having forgotten they were even there until he goes to shift his legs and finds himself trapped.

“How long’s it been?” she asks, the quiet of early morning settling around them like the blankets they manage to pull up to haphazardly cover themselves. She fits in his arms like a dream, one of her legs thrown over his to press her closer.

“Long time, Swan. Long time.” He smiles after he says it, meeting her steady gaze and leaning forward to kiss her on the forehead after a pause. She leans up to capture his lips once more, humming into it as she does. He is curious, though. “How long have you been thinking about doing all _that_ to me?”

“Long time, Jones. Long time,” she echoes, caressing his cheek one more time before she shifts her head to the pillow and drifts off with a serene smile. Even after she falls asleep, Killian strokes his hand along her back, reveling in the smooth skin along her spine. He keeps up the motion until he falls asleep, marveling at the fact that it’s been so long since he shared a bed, and yet, it’s surprisingly easy to slip into dreams with Emma beside him.

Killian wakes in the morning to the other side of the bed empty, and he takes a moment to stretch and rub at his eyes before trying to decide what course of action to take. There’s that ultimate fear in the pit of his stomach that maybe it wasn’t so smart of them to rush right into bed the night before, and maybe Emma thought so, too, and that’s why she isn’t beside him.

But he’s just made the decision to get out of the bed and search for his boxers when Emma eases back into the room wearing naught but the shirt she slipped from his shoulders the night before.

“Hi,” she manages. A breathless little exclamation in surprise of seeing him out of bed, perhaps? Or was it the fact that he hadn’t _quite_ gotten his boxers up yet, and she’s getting a bit of an eyeful? She crowds into his space, rubbing her hands up his chest to his shoulders, then back down to push the undergarment back away from where he was sliding it to his hips. “Good morning,” she says, this time in a sultry tone that speaks volumes of her current state of mind.

“Morning, love. I was just coming to find you.” He eases his hands under the shirt to find her bare beneath it, and the sigh stutters in his throat as her lips trail across his collarbones.

“You found me,” she murmurs, her hands feathering back up his body to wrap over his shoulders. “Wanna find me again before we maybe go out and find some breakfast?”

Instead of a response, Killian just chuckles, letting his actions speak for him as he lifts her and places her back on the bed.

It’s at least an hour later when he’s struggling to remember what year it is, or if he has any lessons scheduled for the day. Emma is stretched out beside him, looking like she’s going through a similar struggle, but with a blissful smile on her face.

“You know, I wanted to feel bad about rushing into the whole sex thing before even asking you on a date, but after _that_ performance, I just don’t think I can.”

“Likewise, Swan. But speaking of which,” he remarks, turning on his side to face her, letting his fingertips glide across the smooth skin of her stomach and delighting in the line of goosebumps that follow. “Will you go out with me?” He dumps every ounce of sincerity and hope into his expression, laid bare before her not just in skin but in emotions, and Emma stares at him for a full minute before gently pulling him down to seal their agreement with her lips pressed to his.

“Let’s start with breakfast,” she says, but checks the clock she has hanging on the wall by the door. “Okay, brunch. Let’s start with brunch, and then we can decide on a real date.”

“Aye, sounds like a solid plan.”

If her smile could light up the room, he’s sure his own is just as blinding. All said, though, it’s not the worst expression he’s ever worn before, and he could certainly get used to it.

-x-

While everyone finds out pretty fast that they’re seeing each other, it still takes time to get used to the fact that he’s dating Emma, that he gets to kiss her at his leisure, that he gets to fall asleep with her in his arms more often than not. It takes time for them to admit the true depth of their feelings.

Emma blurts it out one night before handing him his water, and Robin drags him away to the stage before he has a chance to respond. Each time he glances at the bar during the night, she’s not looking at him, and he can see how tense she is even from this far away. Clearly, by body language alone, she was _not_ quite ready to vocalize her emotions.

He waits. There’s no time or privacy for him to return any kind of sentiments while they’re working, so he waits until the night is over and the rest of the hall has gone silent and empty. He sends everyone else on their way, making a quick deal with Anton, the security guard tasked with locking up at the end of the night.

Then, with the lights dimmed and his ukulele in hand, Killian takes the stage for a short, private performance. Emma walks in with her eyebrows drawn, having just been told by Anton to come find him, but she stops as soon as she sees him under the low lighting. Her expression softens, a smile creeping across her lips as she slowly moves forward while his hands start playing the familiar chords, and really anything that comes after is icing on the cake as far as he’s concerned.

Because seeing that smile, the one she keeps reserved just for him, is even better than hearing the words.


End file.
